


The Fog Warriors

by ruthmakesstuff (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Developing Friendships, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 02:39:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4649097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ruthmakesstuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris has a nightmare, but Anders is there to heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fog Warriors

The journey to Sundermount took a good few days from the centre of Kirkwall, and Hawke, Fenris, Anders and Aveline had to stop to camp halfway. Between Anders’s grey warden abilities and Fenris’s lyrium veins, the two men would have been able to continue the journey, but Hawke and Aveline had no such advantage.

“Right,” Hawke said. “Glow-y blue men in one tent, me and Aveline in another.”

Anders shook his head to himself, and Fenris scowled. He did not like the mage. For all his talk of mage rights and freedom, Fenris knew exactly what free mages became. In Kirkwall, they were abominations and blood mages. In Tevinter, they were magisters and blood mages. Hardly any difference, as far as he cared.

Still, a division by gender was the most appropriate way to divide up tents, and Fenris silenced the complaints that jumped to the forefront of his mind.

They unpacked the tents and rolled out the sleeping mats. After making sure that the two sleeping mats in their tent lay as far apart as physically possible without making either of them get a tent wall to the face, the two men begrudgingly undressed and got under their blankets.

* * *

Fenris had been staying among the fog warriors in the jungles of Seheron for a while, now - they’d taken him in as one of their own. Fenris respected their goals and fights for independence and freedom, and the warriors recognised the same in him, even if he was unable to admit it.

Danarius would come for him at some point, and that he would have to return with him. He’d been a valuable investment – he wouldn’t let him get away that easily.

Sure enough, that day came. Fenris was asleep in a tent when Danarius arrived, but he awoke when he heard him speaking to the fog warriors. The man’s voice was distinctive – he would have recognised it anywhere.

He couldn’t tell what the magister said, but the response of the warriors was clear: “You will not take him.”

Fenris scrambled out of the tent, and stood behind the warriors, who had formed a protective line in front of him.

“Ah, Fenris,” Danarius said amicably. “Let us leave, shall we?”

“You will not take him,” the largest of the warriors repeated.

“Fenris, my pet. Kill them,” Danarius said.

He hesitated only a moment. His freedom had always only been fleeting – it had only ever been a dream. Slavery was his reality.

He phased his hand through the nearest warrior and brutally ripped the still beating heart from his chest. The warrior sunk to the ground. Fenris wished he could say it didn’t hurt, but he had no way of knowing.

He made quick work of the others, even with no weapon to hand – the thick trees around the clearing made escape difficult if they’d even wanted to – and the fog warriors didn’t flee. They faced death nobly at his hands.

* * *

His chest was burning. He kept his eyes tightly shut, knowing he would see dead bodies below him, but he found no peace in the darkness. His chest rose and fell – at great speed – but there was no relief of oxygen. The sound of shallow, rattling breaths reached his ears, but he was lightheaded and panicky. He was going to join the dead, he had to be. This must be what it was like to have your heart ripped out. 

“Hey,” came a soft voice in the darkness. “Fenris, you’re safe.” A small part of his mind that wasn’t focused on his imminent death registered the voice as the mage’s. As Anders’s.

“You’re in a tent, on the way to Sundermount. I’m here - I’m Anders - and Hawke and Aveline are in the next tent,” he said.

A larger part of his mind registered this information. Gingerly, he opened his eyes, and faced the green material of the tent. It was dimly lit by a candle the mage must have lit while his eyes were closed.

“Fenris, I want you to try and slow down your breathing. I’m going to count to five, and I want you to try and breathe out with it,” he said, beginning to count.

Fenris focused on the numbers Anders spoke, and tried to do as he was asked. The breath shuddered, but he managed it. Anders kept counting, breaths in, breaths out, and the burning in Fenris’s chest subsided as the breaths became smoother. Gradually, it returned to normal.

“Thank-you,” he said quietly into the darkness.

“It’s alright,” Anders replied. “I used to have these attacks while I was in solitary confinement – I’d hyperventilate until my lips went numb. I know how it feels, and I know how to help.” He spoke gently.

“I – I think I’m going to try to go back to sleep,” Fenris said.

“Okay,” Anders said. “I’ll snuff the candle,” he said, and he did.

Fenris lay back down on his sleeping mat cautiously, pulling the blanket back over him.

“Good-night, Fenris,” Anders said.

“Good-night,” Fenris replied, and this time when he slept, he had pleasant dreams.


End file.
